


hand in unlovable hand

by ssaphxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, College AU, Enemies to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Like really angsty, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssaphxc/pseuds/ssaphxc
Summary: The idea for this story came to me at 3am while creating a playlist for a friend. I wrote the first few chapters in one go while listening to David Bowie, Hozier and The Police on repeat. Now, after weeks of editing, I’m finally publishing it. I hope you’ll like it! Every chapter is accompanied by a song that reminds me of it (you can find them all in the playlist 'hand in unlovable hand' by @ssaphxc on spotify).PSA: english isn’t my first language so please please tell me if anything is misspelled or grammatically incorrect. I really appreciate the feedback!
Relationships: Greg Lestrade & John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mike Stamford & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6





	1. Sheena is a punk rocker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John finds out that sometimes rumors are true.

_But she just coudn't stay_

_She had to break away_

_Well New York City really has it all_

_Oh yeah, oh yeah_

_Sheena is a punk rocker_

_\- Ramones, Sheena is a punk rocker_

_***_

Initially, when his friend Mike had warned him about the student that lived in the dorm in front of his, John thought he was kidding. Sure, Mike Stamford could be a bit prejudiced at times, but he'd never heard him speak ill of anyone just for the sake of gossip, let alone a random guy he didn't even know. 

"They put you next to _Sherlock Holmes?"_ he'd asked as soon as John had mentioned him. "Christ, mate, good luck."

"Why, is he a murderer or something?"

"No, nothing like that. At least, not that i know of. You really don't know who he is?"

"No, should I? Never heard of him." John shrugged. 

"He's a nightmare, that one... and also kind of a genius. A friend of mine lives in the same building as him. He said everyone who's ever spoken to him hates him. During the last year four different people moved to the dorm next to his and none of them lasted more than two weeks. I heard he got in a couple years early thanks to his brother's connections, so he's basically untouchable. He's a ponce and a total posh-boy, too..."

John had enough tact not to point out that Mike wasn't really in the position to call anyone a posh boy, since he himself came from an exceptionally wealthy family... as did most of the students at the St. Bartholomew's Major College, for that matter. John was one of the few lucky people who had managed to get a full scholarship and because of that, he felt terribly out of place.

Surely Mike was exaggerating, he thought to himself, or maybe whoever described this guy to him as the devil was just being a little dramatic. There was no way that he could be much worse than any other of those toffs he attended classes and played rugby with. After all, what's one more arsehole in a school that's full of them?

He didn't have to marry the guy. Didn't have to _like_ him, either, just live next to him. As long as he was just a little full of himself it was nothing John couldn't handle. 

It was a warm September afternoon. The golden sunlight filtered through a large window that overlooked one of the school's ancient courtyards, illuminating the majestic stone hallway. John was standing in front of his new dorm, a bunch of heavy cardboard boxes containing most of his belongings in his hands and a hopeful look in his eyes.

"Well, this is it, then," he murmured to no one in particular.

Behind the wooden door in front of him, just within his reach, was a new life, full of opportunities; that thought excited him and terrified him at the same time. He was starting his second year at St. Bart's, but he was only just moving out for the first time.

It had been an agonizing decision: as much as he wanted to become more independent he just couldn't bear the thought of leaving his sister Harry alone, not so soon after their mother's death.

From that point of view, Clara's arrival in their lives had been a blessing: sure, she was a simple girl and sometimes he wished she wouldn't swear as much, but she genuinely cared for his sister and ever since she met her Harry had been happier than ever. Now that they'd moved in together he finally had nothing to hold him back. It was his chance. 

Lost in his thoughts, he went to take the shiny new keys out of his pocket doing his best not to drop anything, but in doing so he lost his balance and fell, taking down one of the boxes as well. His textbooks tumbled loudly on the floor - well, he thought, at least it wasn't anything fragile. He was trying to collect himself when someone behind him cleared their throat.

"What are you doing here?" asked a deep voice.

John turned his head. Behind him was standing one of the weirdest looking blokes he'd ever seen. He seemed to be about his age, maybe a few years younger, and he was much taller than him. He was skinny and pale, with sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose. Despite his height he didn't look gangly or awkward. On the contrary, there was a subtle almost-inhumane grace in his movements that made him look like a bizarre creature just come out of a Tolkien novel rather than a regular college student. His eye-color was a unique shade, something between grey, green, and light blue, and dark, loose curls framed his face. Overall he wasn't exactly what would have been defined an attractive man, but something about him made it impossible for John to look away.

"Oh, I was just - I - - I'm moving to this dorm." he managed to answer, quickly abandoning any hope not to look like a complete idiot.

The other guy arched an eyebrow.

"I know that," he replied dryly. "What I meant is: what are you doing _here_? This dorm has always been empty, that's why I moved into the one next to it."

John couldn't believe his ears. So this was the famous Sherlock Holmes, huh. 

' _Behave, John._ ' said a voice in his head that for some reason sounded a lot like his friend Mary. She was right, of course. Getting in a fight on moving day wasn't a great idea, especially since they were going to be living only a few meters from each other all year

"Oh, I guess that makes you my neighbor, since I'm here now. I'm John, by the way."

He offered his hand, but the weird bloke didn't shake it.

"I know," he replied, sounding vaguely annoyed.

"What's that mean, you know?"

"You're John Watson, a second-year studying to be a doctor here on a full scholarhip. You're orphan of both parents and you stayed at home during your first year, most likey to sustain a younger sibling. You work late shifts at a local cafè and you're part of the rugby team, but you're still able to mantain good grades, hence you must be smart. So, John, since you're not an idiot - or at least not as much of an idiot as most people in this godforsaken university - I'd recommend that you ask for another dorm. I'm sure the didactic secretariat can arrange- "

"How’d you know that?" John interrupted him.

For the first time since the beginning of the conversation he seemed to be slightly taken aback, looking as if he wasn't used to being asked that question. It only lasted for a moment, though: soon the usual arrogant expression quickly returned to his face, leaving John to wonder wether he'd imagined it all.

"Please, it's child's play," he answered, clearly doing his best to sound as full of himself as humanly possible.

John crossed his arms. Mike was right: this guy, whoever he was, was an utter and complete tosser. He wondered wether he would have been able to beat him in a fight. Probably not; he was far too tall. He'd probably manage to throw him a couple of punches, though.

' _Patience, Johnny boy. You can't afford to be attacking other students_.' Mary's voice reminded him.

"Have you been stalking me?"

Sherlock scoffed as if to say 'that's a crazy idea'. And it was, John knew that, but he still would have preferred to hear someone else say it out loud. After all, how else could a complete stranger to know this much about his personal life?

"You really have no idea who I am, do you?” 

The question spiked his interest. Why did everyone expect him to know this guy? Was he famous or something? He hated to admit it, but he was becoming rather curious about the man. There was something about him that made it clear to John that he was more than just any spoiled rich boy. 

"Why, should I?" he asked in a half-joking tone, perhaps a little too harsh to seem believable.

"It doesn't matter anyways, since you're not staying."

John's polite smile dropped as soon as he heard those words. He crossed his arms in an unconvincing imitation of an intimidatory pose. 

"Who says I'm not staying?"

"I do. I require very rigorous conditions in order to concentrate. I barely sleep and I need complete silence at all times. Sometimes I play the violin for hours - composing helps me think. You wouldn't wanna live anywhere near me."

"Well, I think I'll be the judge of that, thank you very much." John responded decisively.

To think of it, he didn’t even know why he was insisting to stay there. Moving next to Sherlock and being forced to see him whenever they left for class at the same time, or anytime one of them needed sugar or coffee sounded like torture. But he was sure as hell not going to abandon his new dorm so quickly just to let Mr. Fancypants there satisfy a whim. And besides, the damage was done; he'd already made it clear that he had every intention to remain in that dorm, he couldn't back down now. 

“Trust me.” he insisted, “There is a reason that dorm has been empty for the last two years. Some people tried, of course, but none of them ever stayed for long. I believe the record was thirteen days.”

John smiled as he started to pick up his boxes from the ground and opened the wooden door in front of him. 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll see about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! a quick PSA: this is my first work in english (i’m fluent in it but it’s not my first language). if you could please leave some feedback so that I can improve that would be amazing!


	2. somebody got murdered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock has a brainstorming session with a friend.

_Somebody got murdered_

_His name cannot be found_

_A small stain on the pavement_

_They'll scrub it on the ground_

_\- The Clash, Somebody got murdered_

***

It was a perfectly average Monday morning. Boring, even. The temperature outside was 16°C, and though it was raining the morning sun shined brightly, warming the students' bones as they hurried towards their classes. In other words, there was nothing at all in the whole college campus that could be defined even slightly out of the ordinary... well, nothing except for one thing: Sherlock Holmes was distracted. 

To anyone else this would have seemed like an irrelevant detail; after all no one's capable of staying focused all day everyday, right? The interested party, however, had a different opinion. 

"Why can't I focus!” he exclaimed while abruptly grabbing a beaker from a wooden cabinet and slamming it on the table. 

"I don't understand what the big deal is." a young woman standing next to him muttered to herself.

"Do you even _hear_ yourself? What's the big deal? Oh, what a simple, blissful existence inferior minds such as yours must experience. My mind is all I have, I need to keep it polished. And besides, what if there's something wrong with my brain? I have to act and I have to act now before I become a muppet like you people."

She sighed patiently and sat behind him. "Look, I'm sure your brain is fine. You've probably got something on your mind. Doesn't that ever happen to you?"

"Nope. Or at least I usually know what it is that's distracting me. Unless..." He sprang to his feet and gave the girl sitting next to him a quick peck on the cheek. She blushed, and tried to hide it with an awkward smile. "Molly Hooper, you're a genius!"

"I am?" 

She looked skeptically at Sherlock, who was now openly grinning. She'd known him for almost two years now but she still hadn't grown used to his sudden mood swings. It was like having to deal with a child. A handsome, irritating, yet extremely clever child who's favorite hobby was calling her an idiot, yes, but still a child. 

"Well no, not really, but weirdly enough you were capable of giving me some insight on this matter."

She sighed. He could be so fucking insensitive at times, and she didn't even have the heart to point that out or demand that he apologized. Was she meant to take that as a compliment? She asked herself why she still put up with the man. 

"I still don't get it."

"Whatever's bugging me is probably something my brain noticed but hasn't had the time to process yet. Don't you see? My mind isn't slowing down, it's quicker than ever!" Sherlock explained in an enthusiastic tone. "All I have to do now is understand what it is I noticed." 

She looked at him. He was standing in front of him, his eyes lit up and an excited grin on in his face, like a kid explaining his favorite game. That was it, here was the reason why she let him treat her horribly and be obnoxious all the time, all for that smile. She'd do anything to see him smile.

It was an unbalanced bargain, she knew that of course, but one she was prepared to make any day. 

"Okay, let's think about this logically. When has it started?"

Sherlock seemed to think about it for a moment before answering. 

"I'd say two, maybe three days ago."

"Did anything weird happen?"

"That's a bit vague." 

"You know what I mean. What did you do? Apart from the usual stuff, you know, classes and your gloomy experiments."

"They're not gloomy, they're just - never mind, let's see... My brother came to visit. He tried to recruit me to work for him for the thousandth time and we had a fight. I suspect my parents are behind it.Then I met the guy who moved into the dorm in front of mine, Watson. Seems like a decent person, it's a pity that I'll have to make his life hell in order to convince him to leave. Oh, I also phoned the police to offer help concerning a murder near Brighton, but they didn't, uhm, appreciate it. I got questioned. _A_ _gain_. I swear to god, the D.I. - what's his name? Anderson? - is completely incompetent. And on top of that he seems to really hate me for some reason, he never lets me near the crime scene."

"Gee, wonder why." Molly mumbled, before adding more loudly, "Wait, what did you say about the guy who lives in front of you?"

"Oh, that. John Watson, second-year student, pre-med. Why, do you know him?"

  
"I think I've heard of him. Captain of the rugby team, short, blond, handsome bloke, is that him?" 

  
"I guess so."

"How come he hasn't ran for the hills like the others yet?" she joked, giggling lightly. She stopped when she looked up to Sherlock and noticed he hadn't joined in. "Sorry." 

"I don't know." he murmured. 

"So maybe that's what you've been thinking about?" 

"Molly, today you're actually proving yourself to be quite useful today!" He paused for a few seconds before adding, thoughtfully "He didn't know who I was." 

"Who didn't?" an unpleasant voice intervened from behind them. 

Molly turned around. In front of her was standing another student who looked a bit older than her and definitely older than Sherlock. He was of average size and weight, with muddy brown hair and a receding hairline despite being in his mid-twenties. There was something off-putting about him, though Molly couldn't quite put her finger on it. Maybe it had to do with the thin layer of sweat on his hands and forehead, or maybe it was because of the condescending look he was aiming at Sherlock, who still hadn't turned around. 

Whatever it was, Molly couldn't shake the feeling that if she'd sprinkled some coarse salt on him he would have melted like one of those slugs that she always found in the woods near her childhood home after a rainy day. 

"Sebastian. I should have guessed it was you. I could basically feel the average IQ of this whole room drop as soon as you entered it. 

The man dismissed the comment with a light chuckle. 

"And how's my favorite weirdo?" 

"What do you want?" 

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" he asked giving Molly a languid smile. "I'm Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock's best friend. Ain't that right, Sherly?"

  
  
Uncomfortable, Molly promptly pretended to need a 'test tube or something' from the cabinet and disappeared from their sight. 

"What. Do. You. Want." Sherlock repeated through his teeth, still not turning to face him. 

"You know, I was talking about you with some friends earlier and it turns out that they don't believe in your little trick, the one where you can look at a person and can tell them how many hairs they've got on their arse, or who their girlfriend is cheating on them with. Of course I guaranteed for you, but they still didn't believe me, so we made a bet."

"Fine." Sherlock's voice sounded defeated. "Where are they?"

"I'll show you the way, princess." Sebastian grinned. "And hey, what's with the long face?

He didn't seem too shocked when Sherlock ignored him once again. Instead of letting it go, however, he pulled him closer and whispered in a mocking tone,

"Hey, you wanna be a detective, right? Pretend I just told you somebody got murdered, it’ll cheer you up. Now let's go make me some money." 


	3. criminal world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John finds out something new about his neighbor
> 
> CW: slightly homophobic behavior towards the end

_You've got a very heavy reputation_

_But no one know about your low-life_

_I know a way to find a solution_

_And hold a candle to your high-life disguise_

_\- David Bowie, Criminal world_

***

It had been almost a week since John had moved into the dorm and he still hadn't met again the weird bloke who lived across the hall, not even by chance. At first he'd thought that it was just a coincidence, but after five days doubt had finally seeped into his mind and he'd started to wonder wether Sherlock Holmes had been avoiding him.

Not that he cared, of course, why would he? His life was much easier without being forced to interact with that git. Still, he couldn't help but ask himself pointless questions about him: who was he? Why had he been surprised that John didn't know him? Was he famous? Why on earth was he so adamant about not wanting a neighbor? And, most of all, why was he keeping away from John? 

"Hello? Are you there? Can I have a macchiato?" A rude voice interrupted his train of thought. It came from a short redheaded woman in front of him, who was now gesturing to draw his attention.

He quickly glanced at her. She must have been a student, judging from the deep rings that surrounded her eyes and the computer under her arm, and her clothes looked branded and expensive - pretty common at a private university as ancient and prestigious as St. Bart's. 

"Yes, of course, sorry." 

He glanced at the wall clock on his right, next to the entrance of the shop; it was 10.45 PM, almost closing time.

' _Thank God,'_ he thought, ' _If I have to pour another coffee to one of these preppies I go to school with I think I'll go nuts.'_

To be honest it's not that he minded working in a coffee shop, on the contrary. He actually found it pretty relaxing, especially at times like these when the stream of customers wasn't that intense. He liked the smell of coffee, he liked his coworkers and he liked being able to observe the most varied people go on with their lives from behind the counter.

What he hated, however, was working in a coffee shop _on campus._ He lived in terror of the day one of his mammoth teammates happened to enter the café during one of his shifts. It was partially for that reason that he preferred to work during the evening, even if most of the time this meant resorting to studying late at night and pulling dozens of all-nighters. 

Tonight was one of those nights; two espressos and a cup of tea later John had finally finished for the day. By 11.30 PM he was already home - no Sherlock in sight, as usual. He sighed as he opened his laptop. It was a long shot anyways, most people have been sleeping for a while at this time on a Thursday evening.

Not that Sherlock Holmes could be defined a 'normal person', John thought to himself. Normal people don't try to scare off their neighbors on moving day. 

***

John woke up. At first he didn't realize it; the only thing he could feel was the uncomfortable sensation of his computer keyboard pressed up against his cheek - he must had fallen asleep during a studying session. He remained in that position for an undetermined amount of time, only opening his eyes to check the time on his laptop - 2.47 AM. 

What woke him up completely was the unexpected sound of someone playing a stringed instrument nearby. When he heard it he had to pinch himself twice to make sure that he wasn't dreaming because, well, who the hell practices at 3 AM? The melody itself was quite beautiful, he noticed, somber and austere but desperate and charged with passion at the same time.

The mysterious musician was interrupting himself every few notes and repeating the line, often adding a new variation or slightly changing. _'Composing_ , _that's the word you're looking for_ _._ ', John's half-asleep brain reminded him sharply. 

That word seemed to ring a bell. Composing... why did it sound so familiar? He was sure he'd heard it somewhere recently, but he didn't know where. He remained still, racking his brain for a few moments, then it struck him: 

" _Sometimes I play the violin for hours- composing helps me think_." 

He sat up, suddenly very awake. What an absolute tosser. What a wanker. He hadn't seen him in days and t _hat_ was how he wanted to get in touch again, by getting screamed at? Because that was what was going happen without a shadow of a doubt. It's the least that could happen to any fool who decided to disturb John Watson's well-deserved sleep. 

' _You're getting a bit ahead of yourself there, John. Maybe you should go talk to him first_ ' Mary's voice suggested from the back of his head. 

She was right, as always. Without even bothering to brush his hair or put on something other than the crumpled sweatshirt and pajama trousers he was already wearing he crossed the hall and started knocking at Sherlock's door. The music immediately stopped, but other than that there was no reaction from his neighbor.

"Holmes, I know you're awake. Open the door." 

Still no answer. 

"Open the door or I swear to God I'll kick it down. I'm a rugby player, don't think for a second that I couldn't do it if I wanted to." 

Finally there was a sound of footsteps and Sherlock opened the door a crack, just enough to show his face but carefully covering the rest of the apartment from John's indiscreet eyes . He looked surprisingly put-together, John noticed. From what he could see (and it wasn't much) he was wearing a pair of light blue pajama trousers with no shirt and he had a violin in his right hand. John had to restrain himself from letting his gaze linger on the neighbor's bare chest. It wasn't his fault, he thought. Anyone would be curious, given those broad shoulders but skinny physique. 

His hair wasn't very different from the first time they'd met five days before, confirming John's theory that his usual messy-chic hairstyle was just probably just the way his hair looked when he woke up and providing another reason to hate him. All of a sudden he felt very aware about his puffy eyes and overall disheveled appearance.

"Oh, I don't doubt that." the familiar deep voice answered, sounding rather sullen. "What's up?" 

"What's up? _What's up_?! Do you have any idea what time it is?" he roared. 

Sherlock yawned ostentatiously, clearly not very intimidated. 

"Yes, it's about 3 AM. Did you come here just to ask me what time it was? Because in that case I urge you to learn how to read a clock." 

"Don't you try to play smart with me, Holmes. It's 3 AM, so why on earth were you playing the violin?" 

"I thought I'd made it very clear, I need it to think. If you don't like it you can leave."

"Are you kidding me? You're the one who has a problem with me moving here. If you want to live alone so badly, why don't you move out of campus? I don't think many people are going to miss you, if you're this much of an arsehole to everyone." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"Don't you think I've tried that? My brother keeps impeding it. Doesn't think I can be trusted without supervision, the wazzock-" he interrupted himself, realizing he'd said too much. "But there's no reason for you to know that." he added, more quietly. 

So the rumors were true, he'd gotten in thanks to his family's connections, and now he knew why. There was no other reason for someone who despised other humans being that much to live on campus.

John couldn't help but sympathize with this guy's brother. He knew a little something about rebellious siblings himself, but even Harry seemed like an angel next to this absolute nightmare of a person. 

He sighed. 

"Look, neither of us like this but it looks like we're gonna have to bear with each other, so there is no reason not to be adults about it." 

Sherlock scoffed,

"You sound like Mycroft." 

"Who's Mycroft?" 

"My brother." 

"Your brother is Mycroft Holmes? _The_ Mycroft Holmes? Famous ex-alumnus, pride of Saint Bart's? We got a soccer field named after him, for Christ's sake!"

"Yes, yes, that's him. Are we done here?" 

"So, we good then?" 

"I won't change my habits to accomodate yours, if that's what you're asking. I have priorities, and I'm sure as hell not going to change them for a _rugby player_."

He spat the last words as if they were poison. 

  
John heaved an exasperated sigh. He'd wanted to escape his duties as his sister’s main caregiver for so long - their father was a soldier who had died before Harry was even born and their mother was always busy working in order to provide for the both of them, so it was him who'd raised her - and now he was stuck with another child. 

"Fine. I'm gonna let your last comment slide because it's 3AM and I have an early class tomorrow, but I'm warning you: every time you do bullshit like this, this rugby player will be here knocking on your door and I will not stop until you start acting like a human being."

"Fine!" Sherlock slammed the door shut. "Do your worst!" 

"Fine!" John shouted back. "Sod off, you... you maniac!" For a moment he thought about adding another insult but he felt a bit like a lunatic himself, screaming at a closed door, so he simply went back to bed. The bright screen of his laptop marked 3.42 AM; he still had a few hours before the next day started. He couldn't believe he'd lost almost an hour of sleep because of Sherlock Holmes. 

Even once he'd gotten back to bed, he still couldn't stop thinking about what had just happened (mainly listing all the different ways he'd get his revenge). 

_'Do your worst.'_ , he'd said. 

He most certainly would. Sherlock Holmes had no idea what he'd just gotten himself into. He'd show him and any other spoiled toff like him that they couldn't just show up somewhere and act like they owned the place. 

***

The morning after John arrived to his Organic Chemistry class fifteen minutes late and looking like a mess. He ignored the professor's dirty look when she saw him enter the classroom and joined his friends, who were already sitting in the back of the class. 

"John, you look like... well, what happened?" the young woman next to him - Mary Morstan - asked quietly. 

John knew what she wanted to say - 'you look like hell' - but it'd probably occurred her mid-sentence that he must have been aware. She, on the other hand, looked beautiful as ever; her mid-length straight blond hair was cascading gently down her shoulders and her light blue eyes were shooting quizzical looks at him. 

"Ask my neighbor, that arse." 

"Why, what'd he do?" Mike intervened from his seat a few rows back, doing his best to hide his curiosity behind a concerned expression. 

"Started a violin concert at bloody 3 AM. I had to waste at least an hour just asking him to stop and another hour and a half trying to fall asleep again." 

Mary chuckled and John turned towards her, surprised and a bit offended that she'd laugh at his misery. 

"Oh, come on, it's funny! Classic Sherlock Holmes, huh?"

"How is it that everyone knows him? Seriously, am I missing something?" 

This time it was Mary's turn to look shocked. She even accidentally dropped the notebook on which she was pretending to take notes. It tumbled loudly on the floor, attracting the attention of pretty much everyone else in the room. 

"You don't know Sherlock Holmes?" she whispered, bending down to pick it up. "He's kind of a celebrity on campus."  
  


"Celebrity, more like a freak show." Mike mumbled. Mary immediately hit him with the aforementioned notebook. "Ouch! What did I say?"

"He's _not_ a freak show. He's actually pretty brilliant, apparently. Did you know he can tell someone's life history just by looking at them? I heard some guys making bets about it at the cafeteria."

Joh shrugged, 

"He just seemed like a normal arsehole to me." 

"I heard he's a poof. You'd better be careful, John. You're hot, most girls on campus can confirm that. He might try someth- Hey! What did I do this time?" Mike complained after being hit for the second time. 

"I'm pretty sure he's Mycroft Holmes' little brother - at least, that's what he told me. I don't know if i should believe him, though. He does seem to have a problem with wanting to be the center of the attention... who the hell plays the violin in the middle of the night just because they 'need to think'?"

"No, that checks out. He got in at sixteen years old and everyone lets him do whatever he wants, it wouldn't surprise me to know that he has a powerful brother." 

"Well, that doesn't give him the right-"

"We know, we know..." Mary patted him on the shoulder, sympathetic. "But unless you either move or murder him there isn't another solution, so there's no use talking about it."

"And what do you suggest we talk about? I gave up on listening to the lecture ages ago anyways." Mike asked. 

"What about the fact that you two promised you'd find me a boyfriend? I'm still waiting, you know." She crossed her arms. 

"I told you, Greg is a perfectly suitable option-" 

"Oh, come on, you're the captain of a team made exclusively of buff rugby players and Greg Lestrade is the best you can do? He's not exactly a crumpet, you know. You too, Mike, why are you hiding your hot friends from me?"

"I think you're my only hot friends."

"Aw." she ruffled Mike's hair affectionately. "What about Sherlock Holmes, is he cute?"

John paused to ponder his answer. At first thought one would think he wasn't: for starters he was way too skinny, and his face features were too sharp to be considered attractive. But there was something about him John couldn't quite put his finger on that made him... _different_ from most people. If seeing him bare-chested the night before, only wearing his pajama trousers, had been enough to send butterflies into the stomach of a straight guy like him he could only imagine what effect it would have had on a woman. 

"Yeah, he's not that bad. You can try and talk to him, I think he's single." 

"Maybe he wouldn't be such an arse if he got some." 

"Mike, don't be gross!" 

"If that were the case," John intervened. "I think sleeping with him would be considered a service to humanity."


	4. I am not a robot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John gets drunk and Sherlock isn't happy about it

_You've been acting awful tough lately_

_Smoking a lot of cigarettes lately_

_But inside you're just a little baby_

_It's okay to say you've got a weak spot_

_You don't always have to be on top_

- _I am not a robot, Marina and the Diamonds_

_***_

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon and Sherlock Holmes was at the library. It was a rare event; he tended to avoid common spaces, but he was hoping to find informations about the chemical composition and different types of tobacco ash for a case and had no choice but to try.

It hadn't been a good idea. Not only did the plan reveal itself to be unsuccessful, Molly Hooper had intercepted him on the way back to his dorm and started annoying him by trying to make conversation, giving him useless information about their classmates that he promptly deleted from his memory as soon as he heard it. 

"...can you believe it? He cheated on her _thrice_! She must have no self-respect to stay with him." 

"Yes, Molly, very interesting." he murmured just to shut her up. How could a person so little talk so much? Did she even have the necessary lung capacity?"

"Anyways, how are things with the new neighbor?"

"He's annoying, as predicted. He's resisting longer than I expected, though. It’s already been more than a week."

"At least he’s hot, unlike the others from last year. He's on the rugby team." she pointed out, immediately followed by, "Sorry, I know you're with Victor."

"I'm not with Victor." he simply stated. 

"Oh, I thought- Well-"

"You thought wrong. You should know better than believing everything you hear, Molly. Later!" 

This being said, he shut the door of his dorm in front of her, leaving her alone on the other side. She didn't even protest, caught off-guard. 

He knew he oughted to stop doing that, but in that moment he wasn't in the right state of mind to worry about her feelings. Just hearing Victor's name had been enough to throw him for a loop; he hadn't thought about him in months. 

Victor Trevor, the guy who'd shattered his heart and walked all over the broken pieces. Not many people had ever had the privilege to get close enough to Sherlock to hurt him, and for good reason, but he'd always thought that Victor would somehow be different.

It'd all started with a kiss, nothing more.

They'd been best friends since childhood, how could an innocent kiss change anything? And besides it was different than what their peers had been doing with girls, they'd told themselves. It was more like a game, a test, a training for the real thing. And then somehow one kiss had turned into dozens, and then thousands of sunny summer afternoons spent playing tag with their tongues and somewhere along the way they'd fallen in love without realizing it. Or at least, he had. He wasn't sure about Victor anymore.

But soon the rumors had started and suddenly it was no longer a game. Those sweet afternoons faded into cold, unforgiving winter nights. He was strong enough to endure the insults and mockeries - it wasn't anything he would've had to deal with on a daily basis anyways - , but Victor wasn't and by the advent of Sherlock's second year all that remained of their relationship were a few distant memories faded by the sun.

He shook his head as if to drive those thoughts away. There was no reason to dwell on the past. If anything that experience had thought him an important lesson: to never let anyone near him, no matter how trustworthy they seemed. He opened his laptop with a sigh and started doing his research on ash, feeling his heart heavy yet weirdly empty.

***

It wasn't until a few hours later that someone disturbed him. At precisely 1.02 AM he heard two loud knocks at his door, a few seconds apart. The intensity indicated urgency, but the frequency suggested reluctance; conclusion: someone needed him but would have preferred ask for anyone else's help but him. 

"John. What do you- oh"

He opened the door prepared to find his neighbor complaining about who-knows-what and was surprised to find a very drunk John Watson staggering on his doorstep. He was wearing a half-unbuttoned white linen shirt that didn't completely cover the numerous club stamps on his brawny forearm. His baby blue eyes were slightly watery and his cheeks were reddened by the alcohol, but despite this he still looked quite attractive. (' _Not the point, idiot, stick to the deductions'_ ). 

"H- h- heeey! Sherlock!" he mumbled. He leaned forward to greet the neighbor and almost stumbled and fell; Sherlock had to rush to support him in order to avoid that he collapsed on his doorstep. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I think... I think I lost my keys." 

"Okay, and what do you want me to do about that?" asked Sherlock with a frowning face. 

In response John burst into an exxagerated laugh. 

"Oh, you're so funny! I - I mean, you're an arse most of the time but you can be funny, you know?" 

Sherlock made a mental note to make Mycroft pay for this. It was all his fault, him and his obsession with keeping Sherlock 'safe and controlled on school campus'. 

"Why don't you come in?" he asked because, well, what else was he supposed to do in that situation?

He guided his drunk neighbor to the bed and helped him sit on it, praying God that he wouldn't throw up on any of his possessions or, God forbid, his notes. Luckily John was too legless to do anything stupid and simply lied down, seemingly distracted by Sherlock's periodic table poster. 

"Can I bum a fag?" 

"Uhm, I don't smoke." 

It was a lie, he did smoke. He could feel the weight of a pack of Marlboro somehow grow heavier in his pocket, yet he still didn't say anything. He wasn't sure why he hadn't told the truth in the first place, but he had bigger problems at the moment. Fortunately John seemed too drunk to be suspicious of him. 

"Hey, Sherlock?" he asked after a while. 

"Yeah?" 

"Are you... you know... I heard you were..." 

He made an eloquent gesture with his hand. Sherlock sighed, unwilling to accept that _this_ was really happening.

"B- because it's cool if you are but if you're not I've got a fr- friend, who's... yeah, she's interested."

"Do you have anyone I can get in contact with? A friend, someone who can lend you a bed or a floor to sleep on?" 

"I'm being serious, mate. You're a handsome bloke, even I know that. I would have totally hit on you by now if I was... well, you know. Which I'm not! And anyways, Mary would be good for you. You seriously need to relax. And it's perfectly normal to, you know-"

"It's the blonde who came by your dorm a couple times, isn't it? It's entirely plausible that it's you she's interested and that she’s lying about wanting to get with your acquaintances to let you know that she's romantically available. Also I'm-" he interrupted himself, having reconsidered. What was he even going to say? ‘I’m not into girls’? It was true, but he had no reason to let him know that. How was it that John Watson kept almost getting informations from him without even trying?

"You think so?"

"I _know_ so." The signs were clear: dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, tendency to touch his arms or shoulders during conversation. 

"Mary... likes me?"

"Yes, yes, congratulations. Now, I need you to concentrate. Look at me." He put his hand under John's chin, forcing him to stare at him in the eyes. "Is there anyone you can think of that might let you stay in their dorm? I don't want you around but I also don't want you to die somewhere choking on your own vomit. Well, that's not exactly true. I don't want to be the last person to have seen you before you die. The police doesn't like me already." 

Usually that would have been enough to get rid of anyone, but John Watson was proving himself to be more than just anyone. Instead, he laughed, looking more intrigued than offended. This startled Sherlock, who'd expected him to insult him back. Now instead, for some reason he was finding himself joining in. 

To be honest, he still found the man unbelievably annoying, but he had to recognize that he was the kind of person who can light up a room with a laugh without even trying. Sherlock had never met someone like that, or at least not up close. They usually cut and ran far before he could approach them and sure, John Watson would have done the same hadn't he been dead drunk, but it still counted, didn't it?

"Ya know, you're kind of brilliant, for a complete wanker." 

John leaned closer and unintentionally licked his lips, looking at him with an indecipherable expression. For the first time since they'd first met Sherlock noticed that he had really nice eyes. They were kind and trusting, and betrayed the tough look he tried to put up as an armor in a school full of hostile people... Sherlock being one of them. 

"Yeah, cheers. Now, back to-"

"I'm serious! From what I've heard about you... a-and from what I've seen. Why do you have to be like this? You'd be such a wonderful person if you weren't like this." 

Sherlock swallowed hard. He didn't know what he was supposed to say or do, so he simply didn't move. They stayed in that position for what seemed like forever, breathing into each other, both waiting for something - anything - to happen. Then, just when Sherlock thought he wouldn't be able to hold his glare much longer, a cellphone rung. He breathed a sigh of relief as he took it from John's pocket - he was in no condition to answer anyways. 

"Who's this?" 

"I'm Mary, John's friend. Who are you and why are you answering from John's phone?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, your friend's neighbor. He's drunk and lost his keys. Come pick him up." 

"I can't right now."

"It's not a request, I'm busy. The last thing I need is-" 

"Well, you're not the only one who's busy on a Saturday night, Sherlock Holmes. You're on your own."

"Ugh." 

By the time he ended the call John was already sleeping, snoring lightly on his bed, knackered, while Sherlock was desperately trying to rationalize what had just happened by listing deductions. It was a technique Mycroft had taught him many years before, when they were both kids. He'd been a terrible big brother under almost every other aspect, but the list still came in handy sometimes. 

_Fact number 1. John Watson was most likely not straight. Probably bi._

_Fact number 2. John Watson had called him, Sherlock Holmes a 'handsome bloke'._

_Fact number 3. ~~For a moment there it had seemed like~~_ ~~_John Watson had wanted to kiss him._ ~~

He scratched the third point of the list. He was probably just projecting what he wanted to happen. After all John was right, it was normal. Sherlock hadn't been with anyone since Victor (or before him, for that matter) and now the same person who'd been unanimously elected 'one of the hottest guys at St. Bart's' by girls all over campus had just moved next to him. It would have been enough to confuse anyone, wouldn't it? 

_Fact number 3. ~~For a moment there it had seemd like~~_ ~~_John Watson had wanted to kiss him._ ~~

_John Watson was drunk and hormonal and whatever had or hadn't happened between them was irrelevant._

He sighed. It was probably better this way, at least his momentary lapse of judgement hadn't had any serious consequence. He looked at John, sleeping peacefully on his bed, completely unaware of the battle against himself happening in Sherlock’s head in that very moment. What would Mycroft have said if he'd known he could still be so weak sometimes?

' _It's just because he’s the forbidden fruit, Sherlock, don't be stupid. You always were so stupid._ '

He wasn't wrong, and the fact that Sherlock usually found John terribly annoying was irrefutable evidence of just that. Sure, he could lie to himself and say that it was only going to be a kiss, but he knew from experience that it always starts with a kiss. 


	5. message in a bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where John pays a visit to the library

_A year has passed since I wrote my note_

_I should have known this right from the start_

_Only hope can keep me together_

_Love can mend your life or love can break your heart_

_-The Police, message in a bottle_

***

John Watson woke up the following morning in a random dorm with one of the worst headaches he'd ever experienced. How'd he end up there? He didn't remember almost anything from the night before, except for going out with Mike and Mary as an excuse to introduce her to Greg Lestrade.

Groaning, he standed up - he would have swore that he could hear his muscles screech, rusty, like in the Wizard of Oz - and took a look around. The dorm itself wasn't very different from his, but far messier. The small desk by the window looked like it would break at any moment under the weight of the heavy tomes carelessely piled onto it and clothes, books and what seemed to be remains of chemical experiments were scattered all around the room. What really caught his eye, though, were the walls: there wasn't an inch of them that wasn't covered in cryptical notes, music sheets and creepy photos of mundane objects (as well as a few severed bodies) marked as 'clues'. Where on earth was he? For a few minutes he just standed there exploring the bizarre room and waiting for the owner. 

To be clear it's not that he was particularly eager to meet the psychopath who'd decorated their dorm with images of brutal murders and left a _goddamn human skull_ in the bathroom - John had noticed it while taking a piss and it'd almost given him a heart attack- but he was kind of counting on them to fill in the blank spaces between his last shot the night before and the wakening.

He was about to give up and leave when he noticed a note on the nightstand next to him marked 'for John'. He grabbed it impatiently; on it, scribbled in a barely understandable handwriting, were the following words: 

' _For John:_

_I'm at the library. Make sure to leave before I come back._

_SH '_

Suddenly the memories started rushing in, flooding his brain. They weren't coherent images, more like fragments, moments frozen in time. Him on Sherlock's doorstep. Him in Sherlock's bed. Him asking Sherlock for a cigarette. Him calling Sherlock 'handsome'. Sherlock grabbing him by the chin. Getting lost in those piercing eyes. Him and Sherlock being close, too close, yet not close enough. 

He winced. Did they- No, that was a crazy thought. He was straight, after all, and there was no reason to believe that even under the influence of copious amounts of alcohol he'd do anything with another bloke. Mike's words came back to him: ' _I heard he's a poof. You'd better be careful, John. You're hot, most girls on campus can confirm that. He might try something_.'

Surely even his drunk self would have refused, though, wouldn't he? Either way, he decided that he had to talk him about it as soon as possible, if only to avoid that he told anyone about whatever had happened.

***

John had been to Saint Bart's library many times over the last couple of years, but its magnificence still managed surprise him somehow. It was a spacious bright room filled to the brim with wooden bookshelves and an old-fashioned atmosphere. Despite this apparently gorgeous setting, it was usually empty: the old bookstands were beautiful but quite impractical, yet the school refused to buy newer ones because they'd been gifted to the school decades before by who-knows-who and apparently it would be disrespectful. John thought it was bullshit; for a private school they could be extremely stingy.

The only people who used it were small-time dealers and desperate students with loud neighbors, but Sherlock didn't fit into any of those categories (that John knew of) so what the hell was he doing here? 

He spotted him sitting a dozen meters away from him, reading intently a huge handbook and taking notes. John was about to approach him but someone else preceded him; it was a bloke he'd seen around campus before, Sebastian Wilkes, famous for being one of the biggest wankers in the whole university. He was accompanied by two other fellows who were standing behind him, talking quietly to each other. 

"How are you, Sherly?" he asked approaching Sherlock from behind and putting his hand on his shoulder. From his position John could see Sherlock tense up, but stay still. 

"Sebastian. I wish I could say it's a pleasure, but then I'd be lying."

“Cmon, don’t be rude. I brought some friends.” 

Sherlock, visibly, moved closer to Sebastian being careful not to be noticed by anyone around them and whispered something John couldn’t quite catch. However from his privileged position hiding behind a particularly huge shelf managed to hear the answer; this was mainly because Sebastian, like most of the toffs at St. Bart’s, had the unpleasant habit of always talking louder than necessary. 

“The agreement can change if I need it to. These gentlemen bet a beaner that you wouldn't guess God-knows-what and honestly I could use some extra pocket money. You can always back out if you want, but Victor won’t appreciate it."

John saw the expression on Sherlock's face completely change when he heard the last sentence: he looked panicked, vulnerable and much more human than usual. For a brief second John could have sworn he'd detected an undertone of shame buried deep in those piercing blue eyes. It only lasted a moment, though, and before he could further investigate the habitual unabashed smugness had already returned to his pale face, hiding everything else underneath like a marmoreal mask. 

"Fine." he growled. He turned to face the two men who'd been hiding behind Sebastian. "What do you want to know?" 

The one on the left was the first to speak. John had seen him around campus, but didn't know his name. He seemed to be a decent person, though, quiet and good mannered. What was he doing here, being buddies with Sebastian Wilkes? 

"Today at breakfast I bet Wilkes that you wouldn't be able guess what Mark here did last night." 

"And?"

"Well, can you?"

Sherlock immediately began scanning the other one, who seemed a bit uncomfortable. John observed from afar his gaze move from the guy's shoelaces to his neck, to the dirt under his nails without ever stopping on anything for more than a fragment of a second, as if reading something invisible to everyone but him. After a few moments he stopped and looked at the other fellow. 

"What's your name?"

"Me?" he asked, taken aback. 

"Yeah, you. What's your name?"

"Oh, uhm, Hunter."

"Well Hunter, your friend lied to you. That's why he looked so reluctant to come here. This morning you saw him come back to his dorm, didn't you?"

"W-well, yes."

"Understandably, you were curious and asked him where he'd been."

"Wait, how do you know that?"

Sherlock ignored and continued, mercilessly.

"He lied. He panicked and told you he'd spent the night with Mrs. Clarke from the Philosophy Course, knowing that you'd be so shocked that he wouldn't question it further right away, giving him more time to make up a believable story. What he did not anticipate was that you were going to tell Sebastian and that he'd convince him to make a bet on it. Mark, will you tell him where you've really been last night or shall I?"

"What? I didn't lie! He's the on who's lying to win." Mark protested weakly. 

"Fine, then I guess I will. It's true that yesterday he was drunk and slept with a faculty member, but it wasn't Mrs. Clarke, it was Mr. Chapman from Human Biology. Good on you, Mark, and congrats on coming out. Gentlemen." and with these words he just picked up his book and left, leaving the three men behind him shocked and confused. 

Meanwhile John, still hiding between the bookshelves, was astounded at what he's just saw. From what he could hear an argument had been born between the two friends ("I promise you, he's lying!" and "Why didn't you tell me?)", while Sebastian grinned, having picked up his money.

To think of it, Mary had warned him of the voices that went around about Sherlock Holmes, but he'd thought that was all they were: voices. Now, instead, he would be leaving the library with a whole lot of new questions instead of a simple answer. Who was Victor? What agreement was Sebastian referring to? Were him and Sherlock scamming people? 

Suddenly he felt incredibly stupid for having followed him there, and even more for spying on him. What his neighbor did with his free time was none of his concern. All he had to do was find out what had happened the night before, and then they could both go on with their lives. He inhaled deeply, cursed his own curiosity and followed Sherlock out of the library. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say that the idea of Sebastian making bets on Sherlock's deductive abilities isn't really my idea, I found it in various college AUs and decided to incorporate it into mine. If any of you know who was the first to come up with it please let me know so that I can give them credits.


	6. kiss with a fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where John learns that not all posh boys can't throw a proper punch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm rubbish at writing fight scenes. I really enjoyed writing and editing this whole chapter tho!

_My black eye casts no shadow_

_Your red eye sees nothing_

_Your slaps don't stick, your kicks don't hit_

_So we remain the same_

_Love sticks, sweat drips, break_ _the lock if it don't fit_

_A kick to the teeth is good for some_

_A kiss with a fist is better than none_

_\- Florence and the machine, Kiss with a fist_

***

Sherlock had almost gotten back to his dorm when a short figure bumped into him. He turned around, expecting one of the victims of his talent begging him to keep the secret and was surprised to find a very worried John Watson, slightly sweaty for the run. 

"Wait up, goddamn it, I gotta talk to you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, already in a bad mood. Was this another stupid ordinary people custom, to thank someone for letting you sleep in their bed even though you basically forced them to do so and they weren't planning on sleeping anyways?

"What do you want?" 

"I need to ask you something."

No, this was something different.

He looked at the man in front of him, dissecting him piece by piece; he was still wearing the same wrinkled clothes from the night before and clearly hadn't had a shower or brushed his hair yet, so he hadn't gotten back to his dorm. But why wouldn't he? The RA usually had copies of everybody's keys for cases like this... unless of course John hadn't even thought of contacting him.

To think of it, his furrowed brow and worried expression were evidence that he had an urgent concern, yet he was wasting time talking to Sherlock. Something about him, then. 

"You want to know if we slept together last night, don't you?" 

John's face became immediately flushed. Bingo. 

"Could you maybe lower your voice, please?" 

"You want to know if we slept together last night, don't you?" Sherlock whispered mockingly, articulating every single syllable with painful clarity. 

John's cheeks were scarlet at this point. He nodded, unable to answer with his own voice. Meanwhile Sherlock was enjoying every second of it; sweet, sweet revenge for every interruption during his thinking sessions, every moment of unwanted conversation and especially for the events to the night before.

“Well, not exactly, I... I’m just confused about what happened last night.”

Sherlock sighed. He could have gone on and tortured him for a little while, but it was way too easy to embarrass him, it took all the fun out of it. Seeing him know, disheveled and embarrassed he didn't look even look like such an annoying git, on the contrary, he was almost... almost cute. He didn't even mean in an 'attractive' way - ' _although... nope, Holmes, stay focused!'_ \- no, it simply made him look much younger and more innocent than usual, more like a child in need of protection rather than the famous captain of St. Bart’s rugby team. 

"Nothing really. You just lost your keys so I let you sleep on my bed. I had other things to do anyways - I need very little sleep at night as long as I take a few short naps during the day."

As soon as he heard it John looked immediately relieved; it was clearly the answer he was hoping for. His face muscles immediately relaxed and his worried expression disappeared. 

A small part of Sherlock's ego was hurt that he'd be so comforted at the thought that his drunken self had been smart enough not to sleep with him, but he decided to ignore it. It was nothing he hadn't predicted anyways. 

"How did you-" 

"How did I know? Please. You're a closeted bisexual with a low alcohol tolerance and daddy issues who woke up in the bed of a random dude you hate. Hardly a difficult deduction."

"I'm- Wha- I- I'm not bisexual!" John stammered angrily. "Or any other of those things." 

' _Two outings in a day, congratulations._ ' a mean voice in the back of his head commented. ' _That must be some kind of record, even for you._ '

Sherlock was pretty sure outing him to himself didn’t really count, but he didn’t have the time to worry about it. 

"I'm never wrong about this kind of stuff."

"Why, because you have the best gaydar ever?" John crossed his arms. 

"No, because all I have to do is look at you to know that your father was a soldier who died a couple of years after your birth and you believe that it's your duty to follow his footsteps and become an army doctor. Because I met your blonde friend exactly once and I know she's in love with you and because I can tell that this is not the only thing you came here to talk about, so speak instead of wasting my time." 

"Who's Victor?" John blurted out. He looked as surprised by his question as Sherlock was, but refused to back down.

As for the other, those three words alone were enough to make his blood run cold. His worst nightmare had finally come true, and it’d materialized itself under the form of his unsuspecting neighbor asking about his past. It was only a matter of time, he knew that, but why today? Why _him_? Why couldn't it be under litterally any other circumstances?

"That's not what you wanted to ask." he said quietly.

Seeing him suddenly so silent, no longer insisting on having the last word, seemed to spike John’s interest.

"No, it isn’t, but it's what I want to know now. Who's Victor and what does your arrangement with Wilkes have to do with him?"

"I don't see how it concerns you." 

"Cmon, why are you being so secretive? Is he your boyfr-" 

Suddenly consumed by an aimless fury, Sherlock pushed him against the wall in front of them. He curled his hand into a fist and tried to throw him a right aiming at his nose. Fortunately for John he managed to just barely dodge it; less fortunately, it ended up hitting his cheekbone-area with a loud thud. For a brief, glorious moment John didn't seem that pissed off, but before Sherlock could let him go and apologize - he could already imagine Mycroft's rebuke once he found out he'd been in another fight - the blond charged in, sending them both crushing against the cold stone floor. 

"Am I right, is that why you're mad?" his voice sounded slightly hoarse as he hit him to the chin in return, then grabbed his neck tightening his grip just enough to keep him still but not enough to cause any serious damage. 

Sherlock could already taste the sweet metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and felt his strength come less - after all he hadn't slept or eaten in more than 24 hours. As if that wasn't enough, he felt suddenly very aware of their position: John's body was pressed onto his and they were facing each other, their faces only a few millimeters away from one another. He could feel John's chest move up and down against his with every breath he took. He smelled of coffee and cheap deodorant, a scent both extremely common yet somehow comforting. 

"How did you know all that about that bloke?" John asked again, seeing that Sherlock had no intention to answer his first question. 

Sherlock tried to push him away with a weak kick, but it didn't have much of an effect. 

"I can do this all day and I just might. The least you can do is answer me." 

“I simply observed.” he gave in, panting, while still trying to break free. 

“Observed what? There is no way you could tell just by looking at him.”

Before he could answer they were interrupted by a perfidious nasal voice coming from behind them. 

“Well, I see _you_ haven’t changed, brother mine.” 

Sherlock took advantage of John's surprise to free himself from his grip with one swift motion but remained on the ground next to him, trying to catch his breath. He knew John was as tired as he was and that there was no danger of being attacked by him now, especially not in front of a stranger. 

In front of him was standing a redheaded young man in his late twenties with small mellifluous eyes, thin lips and a pointy nose. He was holding a black umbrella in his right hand, despite the good weather, and though he was smiling graciously Sherlock knew him well enough to recognize the disappointment underneath. 

"And hello to you." he answered. 

The man's fake smile immediately dropped. 

"Get up. I need to talk to you." 

"What if I said no? It's so comfortable here!" 

This seemed to really piss off the man, for some reason.

"Why can't you be an adult for once? This is exactly the reason Mummy and Daddy kicked you out." 

"I'm sorry," intervened John, who in the meantime had gotten up from the ground and was now standing awkwardly behind them. "but who are you?"

The redhead turned his head towards him and looked at him for a couple of seconds. Then, when he spoke his voice was completely different than the one he used to address his brother, much calmer and more affable. 

"You must be Mr. Watson, of course. I'm Mycroft Holmes. You've probably never heard of me from Sherlock - he's still in his rebellious phase, you see, he like to pretend he doesn't have a family."

  
"No, he's talked about you." John answered without batting an eye or questioning why and how this man knew his name. 

"Only unpleasant things, I suppose." Mycroft smiled. 

John laughed uncomfortably. He knew it was better not to meddle with people like Sherlock, but he was rather curious about what kind of relationship those two had and even more about his neighbor's past. How was it possible that he'd been kicked out? Wasn't he like seventeen? 

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you two have a lot of things to talk about, like for example your common hobby of annoying me as much as possible, but I have better things to do. Mycroft, why don't you come in." Sherlock said, defeated. "I know what you're going to say, but you can say it anyways if it makes you feel better." 

And with those words the two brothers disappeared behind the door of Sherlock Holmes’dorm. By now it had become a monthly occasion and that day it carried on like any other time: Mycroft sat on a chair and talked, playing the part of the mature older brother, while Sherlock walked around the room, restless. Then, half an hour, a job offer and an ungrateful refusal later Mycroft left without even bothering to say goodbye and Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

Every time Sherlock remained with the vague hope that he'd never come back, that he'd finally crossed the line and that he'd been enough of a dick to make Mycroft change his mind about expressing his brotherly love, but no matter how angry or disappointed he looked a month later there he was, perfectly on time. 

Sherlock sighed as he picked up his violin and started playing a somber melody. He always played after a fight with Mycroft.

He usually told people he needed music to think, but that was just a clever way to avoid further questions. In reality he had no problem organizing his thoughts, since his reasonings were always completely logical and transparent. But his emotions, those were as much of a mystery to him as they are to all teenagers. He tried desperately to understand them, to rationalize them, but for some reason they just didn't make any sense to him. 

Most of all were his feelings towards John to confuse him. On one hand he hated him - did he? He was pretty sure he did. He found him irritating at the very least - on the other he had an inexplicable desire to spend time with him, to be close to him. He thought back to his fight with John. He was angry, of course, mainly at John for bringing up Victor and then for beating him up, but also a tiny bit at himself for having started the fight in the first place. That has been the most physical contact he'd had with someone willingly for a very long time... how pathetic was that? 

' _There's nothing complicated about it, little brother. You're not thinking with your brain right now, you're thinking with... other parts._ ' he imagined his brother's mean voice saying. 

He wasn't entirely wrong. It was a plausible explanation. But it still didn't answer his question: what should he do?

' _Well, but the only thing you can do:_ _nothing. There is a reason we don't get involved with common people. Or have you forgotten Victor? '_

He hadn't. 


End file.
